


The Russian Way

by nerddowell



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (i blame everything on tumblr), Foursome - M/M/M/M, I Blame Tumblr, I'm Going to Hell, I'm sorry grandma, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, remember how napoleon described that one bathroom fight scene?, this is the porniest porn i've ever written, yeah me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 14:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14107641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Illya 'having fun' with the three Italian men in the bathroom at the Vinciguerra's race track.Featuring bottom!Illya because he was lying to himself when he said 'I take top' and I refuse to accept it.





	The Russian Way

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the beautiful, slutty, bottom-iest Illya in Kaiidth's [Sorry About That](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555878).

Illya swallows hard around the cock jammed down his throat, blinking away tears as he stares up at the Count, whose hands are tangled painfully in his blond hair and tugging sharply. His lips are stretched wide around the Count’s cock, plush and soft and messy with spit and precome, and he moans as the Italian fucks into him. He stares up at him, eyes shining with moisture, and takes it until tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes and he’s struggling to breathe.

The Italian doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets worse, thrusting faster, the feeling of Illya’s throat desperately working around his dick driving him on, and he grits out a command for the others – his dandified cronies, whom Illya had also encountered in this small, tiled bathroom at the Vinciguerra’s race track, to start fucking the Russian from the other end ‘until he respects his betters’.

Illya wouldn’t call any of them his betters, but he’s not really in a position to be calling anyone anything.

He lets out a noise like a deflating balloon as the younger Italian – he’s not bothered to learn names – presses two fingers into him, slicked a little by spit and nothing else. They burn as they stretch him open, inexpert and clumsy, but somehow the wonky scrape of novice fingers over his prostate manages to set his blood on fire even more, and he pushes back onto them, thighs trembling. The Count laughs breathlessly, sharply, calls him a filthy Russian whore, and Illya just nods.

Two fingers is apparently all the preparation he’s going to get, because a moment later they withdraw only to have the blunt head of a cock rubbing up against his entrance, and he moans, more encouragement than fear. He still winces at the fierce burn as the Italian pushes in, a full-body shudder wracking his giant frame, but the boy doesn’t pause, just keeps going until Illya is fully speared open from both ends and his head is swimming with the mix of pain and pleasure.

There’s a curse from behind him – a ‘so tight!’ – before the Italian starts to move, and Illya is forced to choke out his cries around the mouthful he’s got, his eyes streaming now as he stares up at the Count, pleading. He’s flushed bright red, eyes unnaturally blue and glassy with tears, cheeks tear-tracked and spit all over his chin where he’s half-choking on the cock in his mouth; and the man swears again as he fucks Illya’s face again, one hand tangled in the Russian’s hair and the other clamped between pearly white teeth to stifle his groans.

Illya feels cool, damp hands on his hips a second before he’s dragged up onto all fours, presented like a mare in heat, and the Italian behind him drives his hips in, jolting Illya forward before dragging him back. He’s caught in a constant push-pull between the two Italians, whole body trembling and unable to make any sounds but the desperate choked-off splutters he gasps out between thrusts. They take no pity on him, the third coming over to join instead of watching dispassionately from atop the washbasin counter; his fingers, slicked with Brylcreem, squeeze into Illya alongside the other’s cock and Illya wrenches off the Count’s cock with what can only be described as a wail.

He’s worked open, pounded by one cock with a couple of fingers working alongside, the Count holding his mouth open with a hand on his jaw as he feeds Illya his dick again, and the Russian is squirming, agonisingly hard, tears trailing down his cheeks as he blinks with wet lashes and _pleading_.

‘Nyet, nyet…’ he whimpers, forgetting all the Italian – and even English – he’s ever learned, and not really meaning what he’s saying anyway. He’s too far gone to pay attention to the noises coming out of his mouth, the words he’s forming; he simply sobs and rocks between them, overwhelmed completely.

The third Italian removes his fingers and lines his cock up, and Illya draws a deep breath in through his nose at the slow, burning, inexorable push forward until he feels like he’s about to be split in half with the pressure, with the fullness. The Count is watching, glassy-eyed, as Illya trembles, eyes rolling back in his head and mouth hanging open on the ‘oh!’ of pleasure. He seems to forget all about what he was doing before as Illya gingerly pushes back against the other two, gasping.

Three thrusts, and Illya’s seeing stars as his orgasm rips through him like a tidal wave, shuddering, his limbs like jelly. He collapses as soon as it’s over, lying there dazed on the bathroom floor with his sweaty hair plastered to his tear-stained face, gasping for breath, throat chafed raw.

The Italians take turns stroking themselves until they come, splattered over his face in viscous white strings, with insults – ‘whore’, ‘slut’ – groaned out at their peak. He licks what he can from his lips, stands up, washes his face in the sink – vacated now – and wipes himself clean with the hand towel.

He leaves the men’s room straightening his tie, and hopes no one notices the slight flush on his cheeks, nor the rumples in his suit.


End file.
